


The Fall of the Apple

by dulcebase



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: First Person, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 03:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dulcebase/pseuds/dulcebase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The third Week begins, and he contemplates his Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fall of the Apple

The apple does not fall of its own accord. If an apple does fall of its own accord, why then does the Moon not fall?

And if the tree may drop an apple, may the sky also drop the moon?

Such an obvious reference to Newton in the renegade’s ‘art’ sickened me. The power to drop the moon is not his.

The apple is my apple of discord, my apple of knowledge of good and evil, my apple that holds the secrets to the universe. The apple is thrown, the apple falls.

_Time be still._

 

Who am I to tamper with the simple laws of nature? Who am I to shake the fabric of space and time?

I am a servant of Justice Incarnate. I am the Conductor of the ever-thudding beats of Shibuya.

It’s quite an easy thing, to stop time. The amount of energy it takes is staggering; stopping motion is easy, but stopping conscious thought…even in the trapped continuum of time I create, UG residents may still think, awareness that my power is used. Stopping UG thoughts require stifling amounts of Imagination and power, amounts which could easily handicap a normal reaper. I, however, am no normal reaper. I have risen above, and it is my job to do such tasks which mere harriers, and even some officers, cannot. And it is my pleasure.

With the world stopped at the moment between D.S. al fine and dal Segno, it is when I may leave Dead God’s Pad in peace, undisturbed.

To see the vivid colors of Shibuya in the monochromatic void of still time is truly a treat for the eyes. The streets are full, as always, teeming with life, ideas, dreams, hopes, desires, a slew of different personalities which is, in fact, leading it to its untimely end. Most weeks, I would forget such meaningless thoughts and wave them off as passing worries, but this Game is different. The throbbing, ticking of my timer reminds me of that. This game is for Her, the very spirit of Shibuya. He wishes, naturally, to destroy it; anything uncontrollable must be terminated. But this Shibuya is much too dear to terminate, too priceless in her vivacity, too dynamic in her articulation. Such would be a shame, to kill such intertwining, lovely melodies in the moment of their climax. Alas, the Composer does not see Her in such light.

Reapers litter the streets, surprisingly, since the Taboo noise had killed so many off last week. Many reapers, it seems, prefer to perch loftily on buildings; a pleasure I never found enjoyable. Few would, considering my circumstances. I suppose any suicide, any jumper, would be averted to heights afterwards.

As for Players, this particular game has one; the Composer’s proxy. Neku Sakuraba- oh, yes, I know now who he is. He seems strong in the terms of Imagination and power, as I had been as a Player; in fact, the parallels we share are frightening. Is this why He had chosen the boy? Just when I thought I had begun to understand Him, He pulls a new trick from his sleeves. Beside him, knocked out as all Players are, pre-mission, former reaper Daisukenojo Bito. I had never doubted that he would betray the reapers; he is easy to read, an open children’s book compared to those who I usually associate with. This, simply, is what the Scramble is, a children’s library. But no longer.

Many, most, in fact, wear the O-Pin. I had thanked Sanae in advance for the design and permission to use his name; RG residents adore his works, and it had been a major selling point. Money is no question, though; it is the pins themselves that were truly remarkable. As a Player, I had hardly noticed the imprinting symbol on the device, not a phone back then, but a strange recorder having the mission prerecorded; a black and red Player Pin that gleamed on the screen, but as Conductor, it seems obvious. To imprint is to share one’s thoughts, or, in my case, Imagination. In only a few days, they will become one with the ideal, and Shibuya will be saved.

For one must break down a mind before rebuilding it in the perfect image.

Udagawa. Few dare to roam in the backstreets, knowing of murders and muggings that occur there. It is, though, the highest energy point in Shibuya, save the river; being directly over the Room of Reckoning. It would seem, therefore, the most peaceful. The splashes of color at the tagged mural seem more appealing in monochrome; the faded Taboo Refinery Sigil less threatening; the daybreak more beautiful against the skyline. It is now that the dread sinks in.

Fear is the downfall of many men; and mine, am I not careful. This game is played for keeps. In the unfortunate event that I lose, Shibuya will cease to exist. Suppose I win, which is highly improbable, Shibuya will not be Shibuya. The Game we play is unwinnable for me; and I realize that now, yet I cannot back away.

The stroll back is brisk; a quick walk that would take only five minutes, if the stream of time was flowing. As it were, time is not, and energy drains from me quickly as the ripped fabric of the space-time continuum takes its toll on me. For I may stop the UG, even the RG for a few precious moments, but there is more, I can feel it. More that cannot be stopped by the hand of the Conductor, nor the Composer, nor any other being but whatever this feeling is.

Memories float back to a time where things were not so complicated. I had been recently appointed Conductor, recent being about five years, and He was the old, experienced Composer. He had been in his Player form, and had given me an excellent challenge; a simple game of chess. Western-style chess has always appealed to me more than shogi ever could.

_“Ah, but Megumi,” He giggled, removing pawns one-by-one, “Let’s spice this up. I’ll play with only my queen and king, and you play with every piece.”_

_“If You desire so.”_

_The Composer smiled, moving the white queen only slightly. My fingers hovered over an ebony pawn in the corners._

_“You seem troubled,” he stated. I nodded only slightly._

_“Why bother to use only one worthwhile piece when you could easily win with all of your pieces?” He laughed yet again._

_“It’s a game, Megumi. I don’t want to crush your hopes of winning completely, now do I?”_

He had, however; I lost, though only, it seemed, by a hair, a fraction, a beat. Victory has always been in my grasp, but never have I kept it.

Now I know, even then he was planning the destruction of Shibuya as I know it. How do you win against the omnipotent? Simple; you cannot. Am I doomed, then? Yes, simply. I may win this game, but the consequences of my victory would forever take a toll on Her, my beloved city.

Everything is as I left it; and as it should be, having stopped time and consciousness. The apple still hangs; the game of chess on the coffee table still unfinished; the white king in eternal check. One move and it becomes a mate. I move the black bishop accordingly. Fingers do not hesitate to have the flow of time continue.

The apple falls, smashing; a decrescendo to oblivion as I too collapse on the cold glass.

Whether or not it falls of its own accord, it will fall, and it will be destroyed. Unless, that is, it is saved.

Shibuya will be saved.

I will assure that.


End file.
